


may your feet serve you well

by dwarrowkings



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, M/M, handjobs, stable boy au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-24
Updated: 2012-10-24
Packaged: 2017-11-16 22:57:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/544766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dwarrowkings/pseuds/dwarrowkings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Silver throws her head up, balking at the saddle. "I know, baby girl, but Daddy doesn't like to ride bare." She wickers, but lets him settle the saddle on her back. He bends down to fasten the leather strap, and Chris clears his throat.<br/>He pats Silver on her neck, "Daddy wants to ride now, baby," he says to her, his voice warm. "Be a good girl for Daddy, or I'll know." He rubs her nose, and switches out the stable bridle for the riding one, and leads Silver out of the stable to Chris.</p>
            </blockquote>





	may your feet serve you well

**Author's Note:**

> Quick (and not so dirty) Stable Boy au for Emily. Inspired by the fact that apparently, Ian Bohen was a stable boy when he was younger.

"Farmboy," Chris says, smirking like he knows it irritates Peter. "I need you to saddle my horse."

Peter mumbles under his breath "Like there aren't farmhands in the other stable," but he takes the abuse anyway. Chris owns the farm, and employs Peter, so Peter doesn't get to sass back to him. He throws the shovelful of horse manure dangerously close to Chris's boots, new and shiny and expensive, but only gets a raised eyebrow in response.

Peter frowns, but hangs the hay fork on the hook outside the stall.

"Alright," he sighs. He's calculating whether he has enough time to do this and muck out the rest of the stalls before the horses are stabled for the night. If he doesn't get distracted, he will.

Silvershot knickers when Peter gets close. She's a gorgeous quarter, with a dark nose and a gorgeous mahogany coat. He runs his fingers along her neck, under her dark hair, and she lips at his other hand, begging for treats.

"Sorry, girl," he says, "Daddy didn't give me any time to prepare." Chris makes a noise behind him, and Peter can lie to himself and tell himself he wasn't listening to the cadence of Chris's walk on the way over, and it's a surprise that Chris is still behind him.

He gives Silver an initial brush-down, and throws on her saddle pad. He goes to get her saddle, and heaves it up over the saddle horse. His arm muscles are bulging, and he knows it's a good look, but Chris is looking at him like he's got three heads. Or like he's backed into a corner.

Silver throws her head up, balking at the saddle. "I know, baby girl, but Daddy doesn't like to ride bare." She wickers, but lets him settle the saddle on her back. He bends down to fasten the leather strap, and Chris clears his throat.

He pats Silver on her neck, "Daddy wants to ride now, baby," he says to her, his voice warm. "Be a good girl for Daddy, or I'll know." He rubs her nose, and switches out the stable bridle for the riding one, and leads Silver out of the stable to Chris.

"She's all yours," he says to Chris, admiring the way his shoulders set.

Peter may or may not watch Chris's ass, pants pulled tight as one foot gets propped in the harness, and his thighs bulge, pushing his other leg up and over the saddle.

Chris looks like he was born in the saddle (and if the stories are true, he was).  

Peter goes back to mucking the stables, and works out his frustrations so well that he's done by the time that Chris gets back. He's putting the hay fork away when he sees Chris rubbing Silvershot down, crouching to rub her foreleg. He taps her hoof, and she picks up her leg, so Chris can clean out her shoe.

Peter goes to his truck and drives all the way home before he sticks his hands in his pants.

\--

Peter throws another hay bale out the barn window, and Chris trips on the stairs. Peter doesn't have a shirt on, even thought it's 30 degrees. His back is slick with sweat and droplets of water are running down the knobs of his spine.

Chris doesn't get anything more than a flash of his back though, because Peter is in front of him in an instant, cupping his elbow, heavy hand on his shoulder.

"Are you okay," he says, almost coy, looking up at Peter through his lashes, and Chris's breath hitches.

"You should be wearing a shirt," is what Chris says. "It's cold. You'll get sick." He twists out of Peter's grip, unbuttoning his flannel shirt. "Here, take mine."  

Peter gives him a weird look, but shrugs. "You're the boss," he says, putting his arms through the sleeves and rolling them up to his elbows.

Chris thought that this would be better, but it's not. Peter doesn't button up the shirt, and his forearms, Chris can't even articulate what it is about his forearms, but they're good.

He doesn't need to be thinking this about his 18 year old stable boy, but he can't stop it from happening just as much as he can't stop himself from wanting it.

\--

Peter returns his shirt, but hides it in the hamper. Chris doesn't want to, but he bears the silent shame of pulling it out of the hamper and shoving his face in it.

The noise he makes is embarrassing to his own ears, but when he looks up and sees Peter watching him, eyes hot and mouth smirking, his ears go red.

He turns around and takes the shirt to his room, ignoring Peter's chuckle. This is his house, and this is his shirt. He'll do what he damn well pleases with it, and to hell with anyone is going to judge him for it.

And if he is pressing the shirt to his nose while his hand strokes his cock fast and hard, who's going to know.

\--

"Come on," Peter is saying, "we don't have a lot of time." He's tugging on Chris's hand, leading him toward the hay loft, where some of the hay is loose, spread out and soft.

"What?" Chris asks, but he's laughing. And this is a dream, but it's a good dream, a fond dream.

Peter kisses him, then, sweet and gentle, pressing him down into the hay that's suddenly there.

"God," Chris says, up against Peter's full mouth. He's scrabbling at Peter's clothes one moment, and the next, Peter is pushing him face down in the hay and fucking into him in one long, sweet glide.

Peter is saying nonsensical things into Chris's spine, and Chris is trying to hold on to the hay beneath him, but it keeps slipping, and Peter fucks into him harder.

Peter licks the sweat off Chris's spine, tongue curling and lips smiling into his skin when Chris wakes up, hard and aching and empty.

He grabs his dick, and can't even bring himself to hate the fact that he's thinking of Peter when he comes.

\--

"This is inappropriate." Chris says, hands on his hips.

Peter is sitting, back propped up against the side of the barn (facing away from the house, thank fuck) thighs splayed wide, (and god, they're worn so thin Chris can practically see the soft skin beneath them). Peter had been, up to the point that Chris spoke, rubbing his cock through his jeans.

He stops, tipping his head back, and looking up at Chris through those goddamned lashes. He licks his lips, and that's it. Chris breaks.

He grabs Peter's arm, hauling him up, and jerking him towards the back of the house. He doesn't say anything, until he's got Peter pressed up against the inside of his bedroom door, mouthing at the slightly damp skin of Peter's throat. "Tell me to stop," he begs. "Tell me no and I'll let you walk away right now."

"Oh god," Peter moans, "don't you fucking dare stop."  Peter runs his hands in Chris's hair, and drags his barely legal mouth against Chris's. "Want you so bad," he admits, voice small and intimate. Chris opens up and devours the whimper in Peter's throat.

Peter tastes like the cinnamon rolls that Sophia had made for breakfast, and clean, like water. Chris tries not to drown in how much he wants this boy.

Peter's hands are scrabbling at Chris's clothing, trying to unbutton and push it off, and pull Chris closer all at once. If it were anyone else, they probably wouldn't succeed, but somehow Peter manages.

Chris levers them off the door, and turns Peter around so he can press him onto his big bed. He takes a moment to appreciate the sight of Peter spread out (even if he is fully clothed) on his bed, because it’s probably not going to happen very often, or ever again.

“Get down here,” Peter says, pulling Chris close, and slotting their mouths together. When Peter’s face looks about as raw as Chris’s mouth feels, Peter breaks away and pulls his shirt off, unbuttoning his pants and bucking up so he can kick them off.

“Off, off,” he says, urging Chris’s clothing out of the way. Peter is hard in his boxers, and with that, it’s not so frustrating that Chris is too.

Chris kisses Peter again, on the corner of his mouth, and then the underside of his jaw, and down, across his throat, into the dip of his collar bone, biting there when Peter jerks, He flicks his tongue against Peter’s nipple and his whole body jerks up, like it’s pulled by a string. Peter keens in the back of his throat, grinding his teeth so he doesn’t yell. “Fuck,” he says, and again when Chris twists Peter’s other nipple in his fingers. “Fuck, fuck.” Chris is content to listen to Peter curse and pant, but Peter says “C’mon, fuck me,” impatiently. It’s too much of a temptation. He pushes Peter’s boxers down, and Peter’s dick bounces excitedly out of them.

Chris can’t help rutting up against him, pressing against him, only the thin layer of his boxers between them.

Peter is beautiful, gasping and rutting up into him. “Chris,” he groans, throaty and gorgeous. Chris kisses him then, cupping his chin and thumbing at his bottom lip, as he licks into Peter’s mouth.

He pushes his own boxers, down, stretching them across his thighs, slotting himself between Peter’s open thighs and wrapping one hand around both their cocks.

Peter bites at Chris’s lip, and pushes into his hand. Chris swallows his moan, and tugs once, twice before Peter is shaking and coming beneath him,

Chris comes a second later.

\--

“Mmmm,” Peter says into Chris’s hair. It’s late afternoon, and Chris hadn't meant to fall asleep, but Peter had been so comfortable. He’d just pulled his boxers up and conked out. “Don’t wanna move,” Peter says.

Chris rubs his nose into Peter’s chest. He doesn't want to move either.

Chris sighs, and pulls his body up. He’s looking for his pants when Peter grabs his wrist. He’s gloriously naked, rubbed raw in places and there’s a hickey above his nipple. He’s beautiful, even if he doesn't belong to Chris.

“This wasn't a one-time thing,” Peter states. It’s not a question, and Chris thinks they've been flirting around this for half a year.

“Not if you don’t want it to be,” Chris agrees. He’ll take it as long as Peter keeps coming back.

“That’s good. Because I kind of never want to leave your bed.” Peter says, smiling so bright that it’s hard to look at.

 _You will_ Chris thinks, but holds his tongue. “Never is a long time,” Chris says instead.

“We both know that I’m stubborn enough,” Peter laughs, kissing the inside of Chris’s wrist.

“Yeah,” Chris agrees easily, and lets himself be pulled back into bed.


End file.
